


(just) keep turning

by Ofb23



Series: Blades [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Bombs, Drama, Gen, Helicopters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-14 13:20:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10537329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ofb23/pseuds/Ofb23
Summary: continuation of "and the blades go round (again)"Modern AU.D'Artagnan has been offered the job, but he's not sure if he wants to accept it. He prefers the quiet life now, doesn't he? The others do their best to convince him that a little drama, and a bomb or 2 is not necessarily a draw back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This might not make much sense if you haven’t read the first part.  
> There are 3 chapters, broken down simply to make reading a little easier, and because then I can post this before I’ve finished editing the rest!  
> Hope you enjoy

D’Artagnan felt the familiar thump of the rotor blades sing through his veins. The feeling of flying, of hovering high above the city, a bird’s eye view of everything still gave him a heady rush of adrenaline, a feeling that had never diminished however many times he lifted off the ground. It was only up above everything that he truly felt free.

He was alone in the helicopter, flying to co-ordinates due north to pick up a businessman for a lunch date in the city. D’Artagnan couldn’t imagine having the money for a cab into the city, let alone a helicopter, but he had grown used to the idea of the rich clientele he worked with and the demands that were normal in their world. He was simply there to fly them around, and as it was one of the few joys in his life, he counted himself fortunate to at least be doing something he loved.

The flight was short and sharp, the client, accompanied by a bodyguard spent the journey on his tablet and didn’t demand anything more from d’Artagnan than to fly the helicopter. Some of the demands of the rich had left him staggered. Expensive mineral water for a prized Shih Tzu. A fruit platter with the fruit arranged by size and colour. A cheese platter for a twenty-minute flight. A certain type of wine only available from one vineyard in Argentina. (D’Artagnan had googled it when he had got home, and almost had a belated heart attack when he saw how much that would have set him back if he’d dropped it.)

Scheduled to wait around, he talked last night’s football with a couple of the restaurant waiter having a cheeky cigarette, then grew increasingly bored before four hours later returning the client to his home. A generous tip had gone some way to making up for the hours sat around waiting. It didn’t quite stop his irritation when his return flight to base was delayed by ATC, who kept him from a suitable flight path for over 30 minutes before finally letting him in the air back to HQ.

Glad to return, he braved the cafeteria in search of coffee and something to eat. He had just settled in a plastic seat with something that alleged to be a chicken sandwich when he heard his name being called from across the room. He looked up at Aramis, suppressing a sigh as he watched the man bounce across the room towards him, smile wide on his face, Porthos just behind until he detoured off towards the food.

‘Is that safe?’

D’Artagnan considered the sandwich in his hand. The bread was old, the lettuce just about to turn, and the chicken…the less said about that the better. His stomach growled audibly and he bit in, deciding he was too hungry to care.

‘Does it even have any meat in it?’

Swallowing, d’Artagnan considered. ‘It has meat, I’m just not sure what part of the animal it came from.’

Porthos took a seat, a burger and fries on his own plate, a muffin on another that he pushed towards Aramis. ‘You’ve been avoiding us.’ he accused d’Artagnan, gesturing at him with a limp chip.

‘Avoiding you?’ D’Artagnan asked innocently. ‘I’ve been here, doing my job.’

‘You’re meant to be our pilot now.’

Unlike Porthos’s assumptions that, once cleared with Treville, d’Artagnan would be assigned with them, Treville had simply made an offer to d’Artagnan. Grateful that he was being given a choice, he asked, and received, time to think on it, also taking the time to question exactly what would be expected of him. Treville had made it clear he would be working with all the different security teams, not just the investigators, assigned to the division rather than a single team.

D’Artagnan was due to meet Treville again at the end of the week. Two more days to consider his future, though Aramis and Porthos had been seeking him out at every opportunity to badger him into accepting. ‘I haven’t agreed to anything.’ He said mildly.

‘I thought it would be what you wanted.’ Porthos said; d’Artagnan resisted the urge to squirm under the accusing look, feeling irritated that someone he had only met a few days ago would presume to know what he wanted.

‘I asked for time to consider it.’

‘What’s to consider?’

D’Artagnan scowled slightly at how easy Porthos assumed it would be. He wondered what Porthos would say if he knew that he’d had a flashback at the sound of the gunfire, however short it had been. That the dreams which had gradually been subsiding over time had been reignited with a horrifying passion. That he hadn’t slept without a light on since their first meeting.

Aramis must have interpreted some of how he was feeling, as he interrupted Porthos. ‘Any exciting clients today?’

‘Lunch meeting in the city.’

Aramis affected disinterest, studying his muffin. ‘Sounds kind of boring.’

D’Artagnan shrugged. ‘I got to fly.’

‘What if you could do more?’ Aramis suggested.

‘What if that’s all I want?’ Deciding this conversation was done, he found his way hampered by a light hand on his arm.

‘You are allowed to want more.’ Aramis didn’t try and hold him back again, but his words lingered in d’Artagnan’s brain.

xx

He should have expected the knock on his door later that evening, though he was surprised that Athos had joined Aramis and Porthos in their campaign to make him sign up. Athos had apologised for the accusations he had flung at d’Artagnan, and the injuries he had inflicted, but there had still be a little distance between them, not helped by the look of guilt on Athos’s face when he saw the still fading bruises on d’Artagnan’s neck. They could be civilised, but till now Athos hadn’t sought to spend time with him.

‘We brought food.’ Aramis told him cheerfully, offering up several pizza boxes.

‘And?’ D’Artagnan asked, hand still holding the door mostly shut. The smell emanating from the pizza made his stomach growl. He had to remember to get a spyhole cut in the door. And visit a supermarket occasionally, then maybe food would not be such a successful bribe.

‘And beer.’ Porthos said, holding up his offering.

D’Artagnan looked at Athos, eyebrow raised in question. Athos shrugged. ‘I brought the wine, but I’ve no plans on sharing it.’ He said.

D’Artagnan opened the door wide ‘Fair enough, all tastes the same anyway, like vinegar.’

He heard indignant spluttering behind him as he crossed the hall to his tiny kitchen. ‘It does not all taste the same. Or like vinegar!’ Athos said in outrage, from just behind him.

He heard Aramis’s rather audible sigh. ‘Now you’ve got him started. He’ll be talking about grape varieties and vintages all night now.’

‘I’d rather talk about the beer.’ D’Artagnan said, holding out a hand that Porthos obediently placed a bottle in. He eyed the pizza boxes in Aramis’s hand. ‘and the pizza.’

‘I pegged you for an all meat guy.’ Aramis said.

D’Artagnan shrugged. ‘I’m not fussy. Never met a pizza I didn’t like.’

Aramis made a face. ‘What about anchovies?’

D’Artagnan grinned, ‘anything.’

Aramis actually shuddered. ‘Ugh.’

‘Pineapple?’ Porthos asked suspiciously. D’Artagnan looked at him blandly. ‘Come on! You can’t like pineapple on a pizza.’ Porthos declared, flipping a lid on the top box and handing out slices.

‘One of your five a day, right?’ D’Artagnan said as he downed most of the slice in one large bite.

Porthos shook his head mournfully. ‘That’s just wrong.’

The pizza took very little time to be devoured between them. D’Artagnan found himself sat at the kitchen table, having a lesson on red wine from Athos. That they could sit and have a civilised chat was quite surprising, but the beer and wine had certainly loosened a few tongues, and on the subject of wine d’Artagnan found Athos to be rather loquacious. D’Artagnan still preferred the ale though, and whilst he preferred it from a pump, out of a bottle was a suitable substitute. He was just arguing with Athos that pizza was better accompanied by beer, when they were interrupted by Aramis.

‘Is this your old unit?’

It was a simple question. Perhaps an obvious question given that he had been in the army, and he was holding a photo of a group of men in army uniform. D’Artagnan was on his feet, moving faster than his leg liked before his brain had really caught up with the instinctive movement. ‘How dare you touch that.’ He barely recognised his own voice. It sounded quiet over the roar in his ears, blood suddenly pounding in his head, but he knew he had yelled it.

Aramis looked up from the photo he had been studying, smile faltering d’Artagnan rushed towards him. ‘I was just looking.’ He quickly justified, hands up in a non-threatening gesture of subluxation, the frame hanging limp.

‘Don’t you dare touch my things!’

‘D’Artagnan!’ Porthos’s voice, surprised at the sudden turn of events.

D’Artagnan ignored him. ‘Get out! Get out now!’

‘D’Artagnan!’ If he had been himself he might have recognised the confusion in Aramis’s voice, the shock. D’Artagnan was too far past hearing anything, rage a living, breathing thing. Snatching the photo from Aramis, he faltered, off balance as his bad leg spasmed at the movement.

Aramis’s arm shot out to steady him, but one look at d’Artagnan had him changing his mind. ‘I never meant to’ Aramis started quietly.

‘Get out!’ D’Artagnan yelled, far too gone to hear anything, to even comprehend how illogical his actions might be, how unreasonable he was being.

‘I think we should go.’ Athos quiet voice filled the silence punctuated by d’Artagnan’s rushed breath.

Aramis’s look went past d’Artagnan towards the kitchen, and whatever he saw there made his shoulders slump in defeat. ‘Ok, ok.’

D’Artagnan didn’t hear them leave. He had slumped into the chair, the photo in it’s cheap plastic framed crushed face down into his sweater, his hold hot and sweaty and shaking. He felt sick, the pizza and beer sitting uncomfortably under his ribs as they hitched with every breath he fought to draw. Memories that he tried daily to forget surfaced, claiming his attention, overwhelming his normal control.

xx

It took a while for him to calm down enough to bury the photo back in the box Aramis had pulled it from. The boxes were everywhere, his life still mostly packed away within. It wasn’t the first-time Aramis had plucked a random item from one of them to ask about it. He was always curious, always digging around, pushing for answers to understand them, to explore them. D’Artagnan presumed it was what made him a good investigator.

D’Artagnan had never enjoyed the scrutiny, but mostly he could ignore the incessant questions often fired his way. Though they grated, he could push back against the questions, or pluck whatever object Aramis had unearthed from his hands, make some joke or laugh it off, or even resort to friendly physical violence.

But the picture was different. The memories were too much and the rage that Aramis had dared to ask about it had been instant and overwhelming. D’Artagnan lay in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t turn the light off that still burned bright overhead. Couldn’t get his mind to quiet.

The knock echoed around the still flat.

D’Artagnan turned on his side, pulled his pillow over his head. It wasn’t enough to block out the sound of a repeat knock. Quiet. Insistent. Maybe if he was still enough, silent enough, the knocker would go away. Because he knew exactly who was at the door, and he wasn’t even that surprised that he had come back. If d’Artagnan knew anything, it was that none of the three were cowards.

The knock came again, quiet still but longer, sharper somehow. Determined and insistent. D’Artagnan sighed as he rolled over, sitting up. He wasn’t a coward either.

Aramis was still dressed in casual jeans and crisp white shirt, though his hair looked wild, like he’d spent the last couple of hours pulling at it. D’Artagnan didn’t say anything when he finally opened the door to let him in, grateful when Aramis didn’t try to apologise.

D’Artagnan couldn’t face sitting on the hard chairs in the kitchen and led him to the lounge, taking a seat on the sofa where he could stretch out his leg. It throbbed uncomfortably, tension building in it resonating with the rest of him.

For a long time the room was filled with the sound of their quiet breathing. D’Artagnan gave in and massaged at his leg, the tense calf muscle giving way slightly under hard fingers. He felt Aramis’s eyes on him, watching the movement.

‘I was in the army till four years ago.’ Aramis finally spoke into the silence. D’Artagnan continued to stare at the wall opposite though he was listening carefully. He had known that all three were ex-military but had never asked any questions. He didn’t want to encourage them to ask questions back.

‘I served in Iraq, Afghanistan. Probably the same places as you. Left on an honourable discharge, after 11 years to go into private contracting.’ Aramis paused, sighed, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but look over, to study the man. He sat in the single armchair, his look on nothing, far away in the past. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what Aramis had come to tell him, but didn’t want to interrupt.

‘Back in the early days of Afghanistan, after nine-eleven when everyone had a purpose and no one knew what they were doing, I led a unit into the desert. We had had intel that a group of Taliban were running training camps in a tiny hamlet. Long story short, the intel was wrong. Whether it was deliberate or not, the result was my unit walking into an ambush. Ten of us went in, only two of us got out.’

‘You think it was deliberate.’ D’Artagnan’s voice sounded scratchy and underused.

Aramis finally looked at him, holding his look before finally nodding. D’Artagnan recognised the look on his face: he saw it reflected in the mirror all the time. ‘Everyone denied it. There was an official investigation and everything. But nothing was ever proven. It still haunts me at times. Nightmares. Flashbacks.’ The way he said it, not like a confession of anything wrong but a simple fact of life made d’Artagnan stare at him for a long moment. How could Aramis speak of such things like they were normal?

D’Artagnan shifted, swung his legs around. Aramis moved, opened his mouth but shut it again before he could offer to do something. D’Artagnan was glad as he stood up, needing to move, needing a moment away from the pain and hurt of another man’s grief. He flicked on the kettle then just leant on the sides, weight bracketed on his hands, his head hanging as he listened to the water start to boil.

He wondered why Aramis had come tonight. To show that he understood? To share some insight into his past so that d’Artagnan would open up about his? D’Artagnan thought back to all the ways his life had changed in the last week. Aramis and Porthos sought him out, actively pushed their way into his life, as if they wanted him there. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure why. He had considered that they were doing it out of pity, but it didn’t feel right. They seemed to enjoy his company. Or enjoy annoying him. Even Athos, though the distance was still there, the relationship had thawed as the bruises had faded, and whilst Athos had never sought him out alone, he accompanied the others, sought his opinion, even listened to what he said.

D’Artagnan poured the now boiling water into 2 mugs, dunking the tea bags around, moving without thought to finish making the tea, bringing the two cups back into the lounge. He didn’t have it in him to tell Aramis about the photo. He didn’t have the energy, or perhaps more importantly didn’t yet trust Aramis to let him into that part of his past. Didn’t trust him with the pain that haunted him, physically through the constant reminder of his leg, and emotionally in a betrayal that had stripped everything he’d ever known from him. He couldn’t talk about it like it was just normal.

But Aramis didn’t push him to talk. They sat in silence, but it was comfortable silence, no pressure to speak, no pressure to do anything but simply sit and sip tea.

When he woke in the morning, he was still on the couch, the tea cups were in the sink, and he was covered in an old ratty blanket that had long been abandoned on the back of the sofa. He was surprised to find it was already 6am, and he had slept without the usual dreams. It was only as he was heading towards the bathroom that he realised Aramis had left the lights blazing.

xx

D’Artagnan was disappointed that he was the only regular pilot at the Musketeers with no scheduled job that day. He felt restless, even after a long swim and some gym work that morning. He had avoided going into the main building, embarrassment at last night’s events keeping him in the hanger. He had run through every conceivable check on the helicopter and was now doing some tinkering in the main electronics panel, removing every plug to clean it, thoroughly checking every connection. Usually the engineers would do it, but d’Artagnan needed something to keep his mind and hands busy, and it was fiddly enough to keep his attention.

‘We need a pilot.’ D’Artagnan looked up from where he had just replaced one of the plugs he had cleaned, surprised to find Athos stood alone, watching him from a few feet away. He felt the red flush on his cheeks as he remembered last night, but Athos’s attention was not even on him. He was looking at the exposed electrics, and he wasn’t looking comfortable at having a view of the internal electronics of the machine. ‘Though if your helicopter is not suitable for flying we will find another way.’

D’Artagnan had wondered why he was the only pilot without a scheduled flight that day, and had already been suspicious of some manipulating. Aramis and Porthos had been less than subtle so far with their wish of him to be their pilot, and it appeared that even last night hadn’t made them waiver. He thought about seizing on the fear Athos had of flying and agreeing that his helicopter wasn’t ready, but as there was absolutely nothing wrong with the machine, and he was really bored and wanted to fly, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say no. Even if he was embarrassed and annoyed. ‘She’s fine. I was just finishing some checks.’ He brushed off his hands and pulled closed the panel, standing and stretching indelicately, more than one joint popping.

Athos still looked uncertain, and d’Artagnan knew he would quite happily not fly, but equally would never admit to it. Finally nodding, he asked ‘How soon can you be ready?’

‘Five minutes?’

‘Fine, we’ll be ready.’

‘No coming to collect you from the briefing room?’ D’Artagnan asked, mildly sarcastic.

‘I’m sure we can find our way out here.’

xx

‘Where are we going?’ D’Artagnan asked as he pointed the nose in the direction of the co-ordinates that had been sent through to his navigation. He had been watching Athos as he lifted off, faster and more urgently than perhaps the situation called for. He couldn’t deny that watching Athos go pale and cling onto his seat with a white knuckled grip was entertaining to watch, especially when compared to his normal reserved nature.

‘An estate out east.’ Porthos answered.

‘Have you been there before?’

‘No, but there should be somewhere to land; other teams have flown there.’

D’Artagnan nodded at the information- he flew blind most days when he visited new estates, he needed very little space to land in anyway.

‘Intelligence suggests the place should be empty.’ Porthos continued. ‘We’re being sent to search out an item.’

‘Oh?’ Intrigued despite himself, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but ask ‘what?’

‘I don’t think’ ‘A USB flash drive’ Athos and Porthos answered at the same time. D’Artagnan didn’t smile but it was hard as he noticed the glare Athos was drilling Porthos with in the rear-view mirror, forgetting for a moment to stare at the horizon in front of him.

‘What’s on the disk?’ D’Artagnan asked, mostly because he knew it would annoy Athos.

‘That’s not for us to know.’ Athos replied, a heavy note of disapproval in his tone.

‘Porn.’ Aramis declared over the radio after a moment’s silence.

In the mirror d’Artagnan watched Porthos shake his head. ‘Emails to a mistress.’ He countered.

‘Animal porn.’ Aramis countered.

‘Accounts for illegal smuggling business.’ Porthos disputed.

‘Accounts for the drug business.’ Aramis appeared to be getting into it now.

Over the radio, d’Artagnan heard Athos mutter ‘I don’t know why I bother.’

Aramis hadn’t said anything beyond a general greeting that morning, giving d’Artagnan space though he could feel the tension in the air, mostly he knew at his own creating. Porthos hadn’t acted any differently, greeting him in his usual booming tone from across the hanger, clapping him on the back as he took the safety pack d’Artagnan handed him. He was glad that he hadn’t upset anyone with the outburst yesterday, and that no one was questioning him on it now. He wondered about his meeting with Treville tomorrow. Apparently even after his outburst last night they wanted him to be their pilot. D’Artagnan just couldn’t figure out why.

xx

It wasn’t the largest estate d’Artagnan had been too, but it had one of the best views. The lands backed into a sharp cliff edge, the grounds contained on three sides in the natural cut of a fast-flowing river some 150 feet below. The house itself stood large and compact, proudly gleaming in the cloudy day. D’Artagnan took a moment to appreciate the view that spread out from behind the house, the vast empty landscape beyond the cliff and river making the estate feel it was the only one around. D’Artagnan knew it wasn’t quite as lonely as it seemed, that a small village was a mile down the road, and the city was around a two-hour drive away, but it was deceptively still. It looked empty. Unlived in, the garden not as immaculate as d’Artagnan was used to.

D’Artagnan took a slow circle around the estate, assessing the estate below him for suitable landing space. It wasn’t hard, the grounds were large and sprawling but d’Artagnan knew that most of the countryside gentry did not appreciate him flattening all the flower beds when he landed. He eventually set down around 200 yards from the house, on some less cultivated land to the side of the house, well away from where the less than manicured gardens stood.

Athos’s sigh of relief was almost audible as d’Artagnan put the engine into idle. The estate looked empty as Porthos had said, but after the events the first time d’Artagnan accompanied them, he didn’t want to be without a ready escape.

‘Stay here.’ Athos commanded. D’Artagnan resisted the urge to salute him. He was surprised when Athos tossed a walkie talkie towards him, watching as Athos, Porthos and Aramis put in ear pieces. ‘We’ll be contactable if anyone turns up.’

D’Artagnan nodded his understanding, glad that he’d landed where he had a view of the only road that led to the house. The land was flat enough that he would be able to see them from some way out.

D’Artagnan walked around a little, stretching his leg as he checked around the helicopter, alert for the walkie talkie in his hand and the road before him. The only sound was the gentle beat of the rotor blades above him and the occasional bird call. The radio crackled in his hand, and he brought it closer to his ear to listen as Aramis and Porthos started a running commentary of the search inside the house, commenting on the empty house, the dust sheets over the furniture, arguing about what the USB flash drive would look like. D’Artagnan hadn’t considered it, but he knew flash drives came in all sorts of shapes and sizes. He wondered whose estate this was, and who wanted the flash drive, then dismissed the thought. He didn’t need to know that. Athos mostly remained quiet, occasionally butting in with a terse order to try doing some work instead of joking around.

The river was the loudest noise outside, a continual reminder of what lay just over the edge of the cliff that surrounded the quiet estate. Movement caught his attention first, therefore, a car going far too fast on the road from the nearest village, heading straight towards the house. Depressing the button on the walkie talkie, he interrupted a conversation about a hot tub Porthos had found to say ‘we have company.’

‘what?’ Athos demanded, his voice no less bossy over the coms unit.

‘car. About quarter mile out coming in quick.’ D’Artagnan had taken a seat back in the pilot seat, watching the car closing in, throwing up dust on the dry road with it’s speed. ‘Black SUV, tinted windows.’ He added.

‘Ok, be ready to go.’ D’Artagnan had already brought the rotor speed up, and now reached for his harness, buckling himself in, automatically carrying out the necessary pre-flight checks, plugging the walkie talkie into the jack of the radio so he could hear, even if it meant he wouldn't be able to respond.

He listened through his headphones as Athos had a quick conversation with Aramis and Porthos, commanding them to stay in the house, hide themselves away. He would join d’Artagnan and they would circle around, try and find out who else was visiting.

Ready, d’Artagnan was lifting off as Athos slammed his door, throwing the man back slightly as he fumbled for his harness. The car had turned into the estate and three men exited the car before it had been brought to a stop, hand guns pointed up at the rapidly retreating helicopter. Too far away for any shot to be a danger, d’Artagnan brought the helicopter up to a comfortable height then brought her around so that he and Athos could view what was happening on the ground.

A hurried conversation was going on by the car, the helicopter being watched carefully.

‘Know who they are?’ d’Artagnan asked.

Athos shook his head. Distracted by events on the ground, d’Artagnan was amused to notice that he had forgotten to grab hold of the seat or even to be too scared now that they were in the air. ‘Three men coming in, armed.’ Athos said, Aramis acknowledging the report over the radio.

‘And ugly.’ D’Artagnan noted.

‘ID?’ Aramis asked.

‘Too far away.’ Athos said.

‘I’m guessing it’s not the home owner then.’ D’Artagnan commented. ‘Can’t be a coincidence that someone else is here.’

Athos shot him a sharp look.

‘What on earth is on that USB that two groups are after it?’ D’Artagnan wondered aloud, not expecting, and not getting an answer.

For a tense minute or two d’Artagnan kept the helicopter over the estates, too far away to be shot but its presence obvious and threatening.

‘We may have a problem.’ Aramis’s voice was low over the radio and d’Artagnan had to strain to hear it. ‘it just got very hot.’

‘They’re torching the place?’ Athos asked in surprise.

‘They’ve brought what look suspiciously like explosives.’

‘Shit.’ It was the first time d’Artagnan had heard Athos swear, and he was amused to hear he still sounded posh. ‘Get out.’

‘Where too? There’s guard on the door, we’ll be sitting ducks.’

‘Get them out back.’ d’Artagnan ordered Athos before he could comment. Athos looked appraisingly at him for a moment before relaying the order.

Aramis acknowledged the command. ‘Porthos?’ Athos asked.

A click of acknowledgement came over the coms, telling them that Porthos was keeping quiet for a reason.

‘What’s the plan?’ Aramis asked in a whisper, the sounds of movement coming over the radio. D’Artagnan felt his own adrenaline kick in, imagining the two trying to sneak through the huge estate to the back and avoid detection.

‘Be ready to be winched.’ D’Artagnan replied, Athos barely glancing at him before relaying it over the coms.

‘Be out in a minute.’ Aramis sounded out of breath.

‘Run straight for the edge of the cliff, we’ll be as close as possible.’ Athos echoed D’Artagnan’s words as d’Artagnan felt the adrenaline sharpening his focus, his movements. He turned to Athos. ‘Get in the back, free the winch and open the door. And hold on.’ Athos regarded him for just a moment, face paling at the idea, before he obeyed the command.

Cold air rushed in, chilling the helicopter instantly with the door open, wind rifling through d’Artagnan’s hair. Bringing the helicopter around he got as close as he dared, still out of range of any gunfire, but close enough that he knew the winches would reach the ground. The winch ropes were lowered down to the ground, Athos ensuring that the two ropes were not tangled.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ Athos asked, eyes on the ropes as they descended.

D’Artagnan fought to keep the bird as steady as possible, as Aramis and Porthos exited the estate at a run ‘…not exactly.’

‘What does that mean?’ Athos demanded, eyes now on him.

‘Watched it on YouTube once.’

‘YouTube?’

‘Yeah, you know the video sharing site? Mostly of cats doing stupid things.’

‘I know what YouTube is!’ Athos hissed.

‘You look kind of pale.’ D’Artagnan commented, looking at him briefly in the mirror.

‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘You need to get back, sit behind me.’ D’Artagnan commanded, serious once as again as he watched Aramis and Porthos reach the rope. Two more people exited the estate, guns in hand and d’Artagnan could see the flash of colour as they fired, the sounds lost over the rotors. Not daring to wait any longer, and praying that the two below had clipped in already he rose higher, taking them out over the river where they could not be followed on foot. Keeping a steady climb, d’Artagnan hit the button to activate the winch, bringing the two closer in. He could feel by the sudden change in weight distribution that someone was on the rope, but without being able to see below him, he just had to hope that there were two somebodies.

A percussion of heat and light lit up the area in front of the helicopter where the estate had been, the explosion just audible over the sounds of the helicopter. D’Artagnan was frozen for a moment, the sight of the damaged house, the fire, flashing him back to an earlier time, another world of hell. A shudder raced through the helicopter, bringing back his focus as he righted it, keeping the helicopter as steady as possible.

His audible sigh of relief was matched by Athos, the most expressive d’Artagnan had seen him when two bodies clambered into the helicopter. ‘Hurry up and close the door.’ Athos ordered gruffly, clapping Aramis and Porthos on the shoulder. D’Artagnan allowed himself a grin as he pushed the helicopter into a faster path, taking a steep bend to bring them back on line with the city. Athos looked a little green at the movement he was amused to note, now that his attention was not held by a rescue or the fire blazing behind them.

‘Nice flying.’ Porthos commented after they’d all buckled in.

Aramis had climbed over and claimed the front seat as Athos didn’t look capable of moving now, and clapped him on the back. ‘Yeah, thanks for the rescue, that was quick thinking.’

‘YouTube!’ Athos’s sudden outburst over the radio made all of them jump. Aramis and Porthos looked over at Athos like he had gone mad, whilst d’Artagnan let a satisfied grin lift his lips.

xx


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading/reviewing etc so far. Part 2 of 3. Hope you enjoy!

‘How much flying time have you left?’ Athos’s voice was calmer now, though he was still pale.

Checking his instruments d’Artagnan answered ‘two hours, give or take.’

Athos looked like he was about to demand what give or take meant, but he made an effort to swallow it. ‘Can you get us to the coast?’

‘Yes. But we’ll need fuel to get back.’ D’Artagnan said after some quick thought.

‘There’s a small airport close by, should be able to fuel there.’ Porthos suggested. ‘Why the coast?’ he added to Athos.

‘Owner of the estate also owns a yacht moored in the harbour. Worth checking out before someone comes and torches it.’ Athos answered.

The coast was a 90-minute flight. Over the shared radio, Athos asked for a secure line to HQ, and they all listened as he explained the situation to Treville. Treville clarified a few parts of the story, before telling them he would deal with the authorities, and see if he could find out any more information about the 2nd group. ‘Where’re you going now?’ Treville asked; he would know they weren’t heading back to the musketeers.

Athos told him about checking out the owner’s yacht as well.

‘You think he hid it there?’ Treville asked, sounding surprised.

‘No, but best to check before someone comes to blow it up.’ Athos said.

‘Keep me updated.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Why would they torch the place?’ Aramis broke the silence, though his look was studying the scenery. The long pastures and small woods that surrounded the city were giving way to more undulating terrain, ground steadily climbing, the weather clouding over but not enough to make visibility a problem.

‘They really didn’t want the USB to be found.’ Porthos suggested.

‘So, we want to find it, we’re told it’s at an estate owned by Braggs though he no longer lives there, and someone else turns up to destroy it.’ Aramis summed up, sounding confused.

Braggs. D’Artagnan knew that name. Everyone in the country knew who Braggs was. He graced the papers on a regular basis, never ending fodder about his ruthless business deals, or the woman on his arm, or the football team he owned to name a few. He wondered what the Billionaire business man would say when he got wind that his estate had been blown up.

‘Where did you learn to fly like that?’ Porthos queried after a prolonged period of silence.

D’Artagnan, who had been half concentrating on flying, half wondering who on earth owned the yacht they were heading towards took a moment to realise the question was directed at him. Too long, as Athos answered for him, somewhat bitterly. ‘YouTube.’

Aramis looked over at him, eyebrow raised in question, whilst Porthos laughed loudly over the radio. ‘Can’t learn skills like that watching a video.’ He said.

In the rear view, d’Artagnan watched as Athos’s eyes narrowed in thought before a scowl appeared, annoyed that he had believed what d’Artagnan had told him and let logic be pushed aside.

‘I was always fascinated by helicopters and flying.’ D’Artagnan said. ‘Even though I didn’t get formal training till later, I was always pestering the pilots about what they did when I was in the army. Finally, one of my Captains suggested I stop talking about it and start doing it. I learnt but then…’ he trailed off for a moment, sorting through memories though no one tried to interject. ‘I was called up with my unit to Afghanistan. Anyway, whether we were dropped out or picked up I was always questioning the pilots. I have never done it before in real life, but I’ve been out of a helicopter more times than I can remember, and been taught by some of the best pilots in the army how to do it.’

Athos was no longer scowling, listening carefully like the others.

‘Anyway, I love it. The flying.’ He added after a pause.

‘You’ve certainly found an aptitude.’ Aramis commented catching d’Artagnan’s eye briefly and smiling brightly.

Done with talking about himself, d’Artagnan excused himself as much as he could in a small helicopter, talking to ATC as they were approaching the coast, and a nearby busy airport, only his radio mike having the connection to them. He missed the shared look between the other three as he concentrated on the task.

‘We’re about ten minutes from the coast, what’s the plan?’ D’Artagnan asked when he could no longer put off talking to them.

‘Can you fly over the harbour first?’ Athos suggested.

D’Artagnan okayed the plan over the radio, his attention on the outside. The coast attracted many rich people, and many rich people meant he was no longer the only helicopter in the air, and along with a small private airport nearby, catering for the many private jets, the sky was suddenly full of traffic. Not as much as on the roads d’Artagnan could see below, though, lines of traffic snaking up to the coast.

The resort was huge, stretching the length of a natural harbour, hundreds of yachts of many different sides bobbing against their moorings. The cloudy weather hadn’t stopped many people flocking to the beaches, crowds wandering the broad pavements as well as stripped off on the white sand. D’Artagnan banked and circled around to the harbour, giving the others as good a view as he could, wondering how on earth they were going to pick out one boat from the many below. Then his eyes lighted on one at the far end, easily twice the size of the others.

‘It’s a thing of beauty.’ Aramis’s voice broke over the radio. D’Artagnan had to agree, until he realised Aramis was looking at what looked like a party in full swing on a much smaller yacht, a few rows behind. There was a lot of flesh on view.

‘Eyes on the boats.’ Porthos’s laughing voice came over the radio. ‘I’m guessing size does really matter?’ he said, his look on Athos.

‘Think we have our target.’ Athos agreed. ‘Anywhere to land?’

‘There’s a small airport about a mile that way.’ D’Artagnan said with a wave of his hand, indicating a small coastal road heading north out of town.

‘Ok, land and we’ll go investigate.’

D’Artagnan did as bid, gaining clearance and permission from the small airfield before landing at the far end as indicated.

‘You want to come?’ Aramis asked as the rotors came to a stop and they all got out to stretch their legs.

‘I’ll get the helicopter fuelled and checked.’ D’Artagnan said with a shake of his head. Dressed in his usual black tailored suit, he could already feel the heat of the sun being absorbed by the material.

‘Ok. We’ll stay in touch.’ Aramis said, indicating his earpiece.

‘We’ll bring back lunch.’ Porthos added.

‘Bit late for lunch.’ Aramis pointed out.

‘No wonder I’m starving. We’ll bring back food, anyway.’

‘I’m sure they’ll have something in the terminal.’ D’Artagnan commented, nodding towards the small single story building that served the airport. Porthos frowned at the building, doubt that there would be anything edible clear on his face.

Athos had been on the phone and interrupted the discussion on food. ‘Taxi will be five minutes.’ He said. ‘Main road entrance. We won’t be long.’ He added to d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan checked over the helicopter, supervised refuelling, cleaned the fuselage back to its normal gleam before he thought to head to the building. There wouldn’t be anywhere to buy food, but there was usually at least coffee on offer. The quality of the coffee was bound to be dubious but d’Artagnan would take anything, surprised to be offered a packet of crisps and bottle of water along with the, admittedly better than he was expecting, coffee. Perhaps the usual calibre of clientele helped with the food choices.

Heading back, he had already finished most of the water and half the packet of crisps by the time he had got back to the helicopter. Later he would admit to being distracted, enough that when the hard, cool barrel of a gun pressed into the back of his head, he realised he hadn’t even bothered to check if there had been anyone around.

‘Hands on the helicopter.’ A low growl told him.

With no obvious alternative, d’Artagnan let the water and crisps fall to the ground to do as instructed. His legs were kicked apart, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from d’Artagnan. ‘Silent.’ He was warned, one hand patting him down roughly, finding his regulation gun in its holster and his personal gun in its ankle holster.

‘I don’t know what you want, but I’ve got no money.’ D’Artagnan said as he was roughly hauled around. His answer was a blow to the head with the butt of the gun, hard enough to stun him and break skin, not enough to render him unconscious.

‘I said silent.’ The man with the gun was younger than d’Artagnan expected, fresh faced, clean shaven, not a hair out of place, far smoother than his voice. He was dressed in a suit that wouldn’t look out of place on one of the yachts they had flown over, telling d’Artagnan how he had got into the airport.

Wiping away the blood dripping down his right eye, d’Artagnan watched his high-jacker warily, the gun butt never faltering from where it was pressed into his temple. ‘I’ve got the Musketeer helicopter secured.’ The man spoke aloud, d’Artagnan spotting the radio half hidden in his ear. Whatever the reply was, the man nodded along, staring at d’Artagnan. He had dull grey eyes, dispassionate of what he was doing, just following orders. The thought scared d’Artagnan.

‘In.’ The man used the gun to emphasise the command, pushing it painfully into his temple for a moment till d’Artagnan moved.

‘Where to?’ D’Artagnan couldn’t help but ask, even though the cut on his head was a throbbing reminder of the command to be silent.

‘Wherever I tell you. You’re going to fly us out of here.’

‘And if I yell?’

‘I shoot you.’ The dispassionate words made d’Artagnan shiver as he moved, climbing across the passenger seat somewhat clumsily into his normal seat, the gun an ever-present pressure against his head. As he climbed in, d’Artagnan spotted the walkie talkie where he had left it, in the pocket of his seat, realising he had completely forgotten it when he had gone to get food. Reaching out to switch on the helicopter as he had been instructed. He pulled on his harness, automatically reaching for his headset. He was stopped by the high-jacker who shook his head

‘can’t hear anything otherwise.’ D’Artagnan said.

As the high-jacker clearly thought this through, d’Artagnan reached down, toying with the walkie talkie till he could flick on the button to send a message. D’Artagnan hoped that the others would be listening, would know something was wrong, but it also meant that the others wouldn’t be able to transmit any messages to him, disturbing the high-jacker with an attempt at communication.

‘Fine.’ The high-jacker finally said, placing his own headset in place one handed. D’Artagnan ignored the gun, still pointing at him, and the high-jacker as he went through the ritual of starting up the helicopter. The routine was comfort, as was the point that if he was needed to fly somewhere, he was unlikely to get shot mid-flight at least. He didn’t think about what would happen on landing.

‘Where’re we heading?’ D’Artagnan asked as the rotors came into life, hoping that the noise wasn’t too loud for the walkie talkie to pick up on the voices.

‘Just get us in the air, I’ll tell you when we’re away from the coast.’

D’Artagnan did as he had been commanded, the helicopter lifting effortlessly towards the grey sky. ‘Head towards the city.’ He was told when they were well away from the coast.

‘I was waiting for others. They’ll realise something’s up.’ D’Artagnan tried, not daring to take his eyes off the sky.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about your friends. They’re being dealt with.’

D’Artagnan gulped as the implication of that sunk in, worried about the fate of the others, as well as to what purpose he was being used for. ‘You were following us?’

‘Oh, we knew exactly where you would be.’

D’Artagnan dared a look, saw a flash of a grin on the man’s face. The only people who knew where they had been headed was ATC who had cleared the flight path, and Treville at the Musketeers. He’d only met the captain once, but he had trouble believing that he would have betrayed his three investigators. Which meant someone else at the Musketeers must have got hold of the information. Fear for the others made him feel suddenly chilled.

The communications gear squawked into life, the nearest ATC demanding a flight plan. D’Artagnan reached out to flick on the communications switch, but was stopped by the high-jacker. ‘If I don’t tell them where we’re going, they’ll send in the Air Force. You think unidentified flights are allowed near the city?’ D’Artagnan said, not caring his voice sounded rather testy.

‘You respond I’ll shoot you.’ The man said calmly.

D’Artagnan couldn’t help it, he laughed in disbelief. ‘You realise you shoot me, we both die?’

The blank look, the simplicity with which the man accepted the statement and simply didn’t care chilled d’Artagnan.

‘Unless you want to be shot out of the sky, I suggest you let me tell ATC who we are.’ D’Artagnan said, forcing himself to be calm.

‘Fine. Keep it short.’

He flicked on the radio, feeling the heat of the man’s look as he hailed air traffic control. ‘M-2203 to ATC, M-2203 to ATC do you copy.’

There was a slight pause before an answer. ‘M-2203 this is ATC, we copy, over.’

‘Information only, we’re on flight path heading to Musketeer headquarters.’

‘Copy that, M-2203. Flight to the city cleared.’

He reached out to flick off the channel of the communications but was beaten to it, snatching his hand back as his high-jacker turned the gun momentarily away from him to shoot the communications console. Looking at the smoking damage of the console, d’Artagnan lifted a disbelieving look up to the high-jacker to realise the gun was pointed straight at him. ‘Now take us to the Musketeer HQ.’

xx

It was a long flight, giving d’Artagnan at least time to try and think of a plan. He didn’t want to take the high-jacker right into the secure Musketeer headquarters, but he was struggling to think of an alternative. If he tried to land anywhere else, he suspected he would be shot on landing. If he tried to crash the helicopter they would both likely die anyway. Having survived the army, d’Artagnan didn’t fancy dying at the hands of this high-jacker. He had too much will to survive. He also had the fear of what had happened to the others, his mind conjuring up fireballs on boats, the others caught in a blast or drowning at sea. If only he could contact them, somehow, warn them, but he had no way to know if they heard anything over the radio before the noise of the rotors would have drowned out all other sound.

Risking a small glance out of the corner of his eye, he realised that whilst the man had kept the headphones on in deference to the noisy machine, he hadn’t bothered strapping in, preferring to sit sideways in the seat to keep his attention fully on d’Artagnan. An idea began to form, a risky manoeuvre, he knew, but the only option d’Artagnan could come up with in the circumstances. He wasn’t prepared just to sit and fly as the man dictated if there was anything he could do to help the others.

He sped up, gradually increasing the speed, as slowly as he could in the hope that the man wouldn’t notice. He remembered learning at flight school about the speed of the helicopter being dictated by rotor speed, and the amount of turn that could be applied at speed before the rotor would stall. Calculating quickly, d’Artagnan waited patiently to get up to speed, before throwing the helicopter into a steep, forward dive, turning sharply to the right as he did so.

The engines whined, the stall threatening as both he and the high-jacker were thrown forward. D’Artagnan was held in place by the harness that dug sharply into his skin, but the high-jacker had been taken completely by surprise. He was thrown forward with force, the gun discharging as the man lifted his arm in reflex. Too late, he couldn’t stop his head colliding with the metal body of the helicopter, any sound of pain lost over the engine noise.

D’Artagnan had little time to process the bullet that narrowly missed his face before shattering the plexiglass window next to him, a chill gust of wind filling the helicopter. He didn’t even have time to look to see if he had managed to knock out the high-jacker. He fought, two handed, to right the helicopter before the engine stalled and they plummeted to the ground. It took all his body strength to pull the helicopter back level, long moments passing before d’Artagnan believed the helicopter would continue flying and he dared look at the man. He was slumped in the foot well, blood pooling from a jagged headwound, alive but mercifully unconscious.

For a moment, all he could do was breath, calm his rapid heart rate, wonder and relief that the audacious manoeuvre had not only worked but he hadn’t stalled the engine. Eventually, collecting himself, he turned the helicopter at a more sedate speed, pushing it back towards the coast even as he reached for the walkie talkie. The pocket where it had sat was empty though, the walkie talkie having been flung around by the sudden manoeuvre, and d’Artagnan didn’t dare try and scrabble around for it as he flew.

Keeping more of an eye on the man, even though he was unmoving, than on the flight path before him, he flew as fast he as he was able back to the coast, only slowing as he came into the busier air space, flying lower in the hope to avoid any near misses as he was unable to communicate with anyone.

He flew over the harbour, expecting to see the blackened hull of a boat, only to be greeted by a completely empty slot where the yacht had been. Feeling the beginning of panic build again, d’Artagnan was just wondering what he was supposed to do when he noticed a thin streak of black smoke on the horizon. Following instinct, he turned towards the smoke, flying out to sea, heart rate too high and stomach tied in knots as he wondered what he would find.

D’Artagnan unconsciously held his breath as he sped towards the smoke, releasing air on a huge exclamation of relief as he found the yacht mostly intact, bobbing on the rough sea. He circled, looking for signs of life on board, breathing another sigh of relief as he found three men on the far side, recognising their shapes enough to know that the three investigators were alive. The smoke rose from the engine compartment, preventing him from getting too close and telling him the yacht was likely powerless out at sea.

With nowhere to land, he pointed the machine into the wind, opening the back door and releasing a single winch line. The wind buffeted him around, far stronger than on land, and d’Artagnan had to work to keep her relatively steady. He couldn’t do two winch lines in this weather, they would become tangled far too easily. Blind to the yacht when he was over it, he had to make a logical guess about where to lower the winch, praying he was right as he noticed on the far horizon that two more boats were heading out towards them at speed.

Feeling the line tug under the weight of someone, d’Artagnan prayed it hadn’t just snagged on the yacht and began to winch, barely breathing as he watched the back door, fought the wind, and kept an eye on the incoming boats. He barely greeted Porthos who clambered into the helicopter, yelling at him over the sound of the rotor to let the rope go again. Porthos did as directed, leaning out with his hand wrapped into one of the safety lines, and directing d’Artagnan with hand motions to where the other two were.

D’Artagnan saw that the two boats were much closer now, and knew they didn’t have time to do a third winch, he waved at Porthos and held up two fingers. Porthos looked confused till d’Artagnan gestured at the horizon, and Porthos spotted the boats too. Leaning out, Porthos somehow got the message down, the second winch much harder as d’Artagnan fought against the wind and the added weight to keep the helicopter steady and not accidently bang the two men on the winch into the side of the yacht.

It seemed to take a long time, the boats no longer blurry objects on the horizon, but two small powerboats going hell for leather across the choppy sea as they neared. Aramis and Athos finally appeared over the side of the helicopter, scrambling in with Porthos’s help. D’Artagnan didn’t wait for the door to close properly before he took off, the sound of the machine guns held from the powerboats lost over the sound of the engines but the intent obvious. He took them higher, out of range, before he allowed himself to take a proper breath.

Athos had waited till he was seated and strapped in, headset on before yelling over the radio. The radio, though, was defunct, and d’Artagnan only knew he was shouting when he glanced in the rear-view mirror. D’Artagnan gestured helpfully at the blown-out radio, finding it in him to smile sweetly at Athos in the rear view.

Athos glowered, an impressive bruise around his eye almost swelling one eye shut, limiting the effect somewhat. Glancing at the others, d’Artagnan could see the signs of a fight on them too, Porthos’s cheek swollen, skin broken though no longer bleeding, Aramis sporting bruises to the chin and a cut on one ear.

D’Artagnan gestured to the front foot well, now that he had help, hoping that one of them would secure the man, even though he was still unconscious. The surprise on Athos’s face when he glanced over, and did a double take at the body, almost made d’Artagnan laugh. He didn’t, though, scared at how hysterical it would sound, even though no one would hear.

Aramis climbed over, taking one look at the man before taking the gun and handing it off to Porthos, and securing his wrists and ankles with cable ties from his pocket. D’Artagnan saw him pat the man down, finding his two guns but little else in the jacket pockets. He looked at d’Artagnan, assessing his forehead, but d’Artagnan indicated that he was alright, though he was suddenly feeling rather exhausted.

D’Artagnan flew to the nearest safe place to land, even if it was back at the small airport where his helicopter had originally been highjacked. He would have preferred to be heading home, but with no radio, two bullet holes in his machine, and darkness beating them to the city, he knew it wasn’t the safe option.

As soon as the engines were on a wind down, the four, almost as one, pulled off their headsets. They looked at the high-jacker in the foot well, at the damage in the helicopter, and then at the damage on each other, before as one they heaved a mighty sigh of relief.

‘What the hell happened?’ Athos asked, but there was no heat to the words, just a weariness reflected on all their faces.

Seeing a man running from the hanger, d’Artagnan shook his head as Porthos opened his mouth to comment. ‘Later.’ He said firmly.

The others understood immediately, all of them exiting the helicopter though d’Artagnan had to pause for a moment till his leg steadied enough to balance properly.

‘Are you ok? We saw the damage as you landed.’ D’Artagnan recognised him as the man who had given him the food earlier.

‘We’re fine, but as you can see we need some repairs. May we house her here overnight?’ D’Artagnan ran a finger over the damaged plexiglass window, wondering if the man would spot the cause.

‘Of course, of course. You are all hurt.’

Athos stepped forward. ‘There is someone more badly hurt inside. Please can you go contact the police and ambulance?’

The man was very reluctant to leave but finally did as bid, hurrying back to the hanger.

‘Cliff notes.’ Athos said, turning to d’Artagnan as he hurried away.

He hooked a thumb in the direction of the helicopter. ‘Highjacked. Wanted me to fly to HQ. knew where you were. Should have worn his seatbelt.’

Athos looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed at the information in so little words, or disgruntled at the lack of detail.

‘We heard a bit over the radio.’ Aramis told him. ‘Couldn’t make out enough to know what was going, but it made us alert enough for when the boat started moving and we were taken out to sea.’

‘What happened?’

‘They sabotaged the engine where you found us, planned to leave us, but we managed to get the upper hand. I’m guessing those boats were their ride out of there.’

‘All this, over a USB.’ Porthos commented.

D’Artagnan went to speak, then thought better of it, unsure if they would willingly hear about his suspicions of who was behind it. Athos caught the movement though. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, the only people who knew we were going to the coast were air traffic control when I lodged the flight plan, and Treville.’ He said, fidgeting slightly under Athos’s cool gaze.

It took a moment for the implication to sink in, and the look on Athos’s face wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t aimed at him for once. ‘Not Treville.’ He said finally, firmly. ‘But someone at HQ is a mole.’

‘Who?’ D’Artagnan asked.

‘I have my suspicions.’ Athos said, but didn’t elaborate as the man returned from the hanger, and the sound of sirens became obvious in the distant.

xx

D’Artagnan had been in many situations where fear was the only natural response. He’d walked through fields littered with landmines, had guns pointed at him, knives held at his throat. He’d served in combat zones in some of the most unstable countries in the world. He had enough experience to expect the after effects of an adrenaline filled situation, the natural high that made him feel oddly euphoric, the most natural of pain killers that blocked even the deep ache of his bad leg. He also knew it would ebb away over time.

It was enough to get him through the questions of the cops about the semi-conscious man in the helicopter, currently under arrest and being taken to hospital. It helped him deal with the frighteningly happy paramedic who was very eager to take all of them to hospital (Aramis had stepped in at that point, rescuing them from the clutches of the paramedic by claiming to have training as a field medic).

Finally, the police had enough and followed the ambulance into town and Athos finished his own debrief with Treville.

‘We’ve got rooms in a hotel in town, and a hire car arriving in ten minutes at the entrance.’ He told them when he had finished. ‘Treville wants us back first thing tomorrow, as soon as we can fly. He’s arranging for a specialist mechanic team to come out to fix the helicopter.’

‘Who organised the rooms?’ Porthos asked suspiciously.

‘Constance.’ At d’Artagnan’s blank look Athos added ‘Treville’s PA. Most loyal woman I’ve ever met.’

‘Let’s get out of here.’ Aramis said.

D’Artagnan shook his head. ‘I’m going to stay, help with the helicopter.’ He lay a hand reverently on her side. He knew, logically, that she was a machine, incapable of being hurt, but there was still something sad about seeing her with bullet holes.

‘The mechanics are specialists.’ Porthos pointed out.

Even knowing they were probably the best, as they had been arranged by the Musketeers, d’Artagnan was feeling strangely reluctant to leave her in the clutches of strangers. And it wasn’t only to avoid the others for a while. ‘I’ll catch you up later.’ D’Artagnan said.

He was surprised when it was Athos who disagreed with a blunt shake of the head. ‘We stay together.’

Annoyed at being bossed around, d’Artagnan opened his mouth to disagree but Athos spoke over him. ‘We’ve clear proof that someone knows what we are after and will do anything to stop us. We stay together.’ He said with finality.

‘Come on, I haven’t eaten in hours.’ Porthos complained. D’Artagnan’s stomach chose that moment to remind him that it also hadn’t been filled in hours, not since a half packet of crisps what felt like a lifetime ago. Porthos grinned at the noise.

D’Artagnan huffed at his own body’s betrayal, but the thought of food and sleep did galvanise him slightly. The adrenaline high was fading and with it tiredness was setting in. He climbed back in the helicopter again, but was out before anyone could comment, bag in hand.

‘You’ve got clean clothes, haven’t you?’ Aramis said accusingly.

‘Always be prepared.’ D’Artagnan said with a grin.

‘I can just see you as a boy scout somehow.’ Porthos teased.

‘It’s one night, Aramis, stop pouting.’ Athos ordered. He sighed when Aramis just looked at him mournfully.

The walk to the main entrance wasn’t particularly long, and wouldn’t normally have bothered d’Artagnan so much. But he had been sitting for too much of the day, and now that he had nothing else to concentrate on, and no helpful adrenaline buzz, his leg was a deep ache, and wouldn’t let him walk quickly. The others automatically adjusted to his slower pace, though d’Artagnan was glad no one said anything.

The hotel was back in town but away from the beach area, in a much quieter suburb. Athos detoured to a supermarket on the way, so they could all pick up some necessities like a toothbrush and some fresh clothes. D’Artagnan kept a clean shirt and change of underwear in his bag, but was glad of the opportunity to get something slightly more comfortable that the suit he was wearing.

Aramis, however, was less than pleased. ‘A supermarket, Athos! You expect me to wear something from a supermarket?’ D’Artagnan had to grin at the tone.

‘You can go around naked for all I care, but I’m not going home with you tomorrow smelling like that.’ Athos told him.

‘Oi!’ Aramis looked highly offended, before he took a cautious sniff under his suit jacket. The grimace told its own story. ‘Fine.’

The hotel was clean and functional and had a restaurant on site. The startled look on the receptionist’s face convinced them all they should freshen up before heading down to dinner, much as they all wanted to eat. D’Artagnan stayed back letting the others settle who was bunking where, as they only had two rooms between them after the receptionist had apologised that they were full.

‘Hope you don’t snore?’ Aramis asked as he handed d’Artagnan their room card. D’Artagnan let out a silent sigh of relief that he wasn’t sharing with Athos, who he found intimidating, and didn’t fancy trying to explain the problem of darkness to him. Aramis seemed to understand anyway, judging from the small, understanding smile.

The room was as clean and practical as the rest of the hotel, if a little on the small side for two grown men, Aramis complaining at the narrow beds. D’Artagnan sat on one of the beds to untie his boots, freeing his ankle to massage the stiff joint, and hard calf. ‘Do you need painkillers?’ Aramis’s tone was blunt, functional.

D’Artagnan pulled the overnight bag towards him with a nod. ‘I should have some.’

‘You want me to clean that cut?’

‘You should see to your ear’ d’Artagnan said with a gesture towards his face.

‘I was trained as a field medic.’ Aramis explained, ignoring the gesture.

D’Artagnan looked up at him properly. ‘Thought you were just trying to get rid of the paramedic.’

‘Oh, I was. No one has the right to be that happy. But it’s true, I was a field army medic.’

‘He didn’t hit hard. He needed me to fly. I had worse playing football.’ D’Artagnan told him, hauling himself to his feet on a strongly protesting leg, limping closer to the mirror to see for himself. The blood had long since dried, making it look worse, but the cut had clotted over, and there was little in the way of bruising. He prodded it for a moment before limping to the bathroom to wash the worst of the blood away. Somewhat refreshed, and after changing out of his suit into the more casual trousers and shirt he had brought, he sat to wait for Aramis who was fussing in the bathroom, having changed into ill-fitting jeans and t-shirt.

A banging on the door interrupted them. ‘Aramis, stop looking in the mirror and come for dinner!’ Porthos yelled through the door. D’Artagnan laughed, before groaning when he realised he needed to put his boots back on.

Dinner was uninspiring but filling, d’Artagnan feeling revived by the meal enough to even join in with some of the light-hearted conversation. An unspoken agreement meant they stayed away from the events of today, the restaurant though not busy was public and after everything that had happened, they were all more watchful than normal.

It was late by the time they went to bed, but even though he felt tired, d’Artagnan couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get his mind to shut down. The afterglow of a successful mission, eating, drinking, bantering with men who had been through it with him was a familiar feeling. The camaraderie that only came from a shared experience had felt normal, d’Artagnan realised, and that was the problem, leaving him feeling oddly unsettled as he lay there, listening to Aramis’s soft snores.

It was the very feeling of belonging with a group of men that he didn’t want. He didn’t want to be in a unit again because he had had that before. He had enjoyed the feeling of family, of living, breathing, surviving with the men in his unit, men closer than brothers.

And then his unit had been betrayed. Betrayed by men from within. Men who had taken money over their family. He had been led with his comrades into a slaughter by brothers who were simply after a profit. He had trusted those men with his life, and they had wilfully led his whole unit into hell, his leg a constant reminder of the betrayal. As d’Artagnan lay in bed, he forced his mind away from the disquiet of the familiar camaraderie, and rolled over onto his side, staring at the light filtering in from the open bathroom door. Aramis hadn’t said anything, just made it clear he was leaving it up to d’Artagnan to leave the room as he wanted it as he went to bed. And that was half the problem. They were all good men, even Athos though d’Artagnan was wary around him. They were good men, and d’Artagnan found himself trusting them. He just didn’t want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you are enjoying this, last part coming soon, I promise. Tomorrow if I have time to finish spell checking!  
> Rx


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback so far. Last part, hope you continue to enjoy this.  
> There’s a scene in this that I particularly enjoyed imagining. I’ll let you guess which one…

‘Why did you come back?’ The question, posed over the newly fixed radio, was clearly aimed at d’Artagnan, though he tried his best to ignore it.

Athos, sat once again in the front, looking as uncomfortable as normal high up in the air, was distracted enough to turn and look at him as well. D’Artagnan could see the curiosity on his face out of the corner of his eye.

The helicopter had not only been fixed, but polished to a shiny finish, reflecting the bright early morning sun as they had walked across the airstrip to it. D’Artagnan had taken longer than usual on his pre-flight checks, the others patiently waiting as he checked the window, the radio, the internal electronics, even the external electronics. Once up in the air, d’Artagnan had let the familiar excitement of the flight calm the uneasiness that had punctuated his night.

He’d almost been relaxed until Aramis had asked his question over the radio. D’Artagnan tried for glib. ‘you want I should have left you there?’

‘The logical thing would have been to land.’ Athos was still watching him rather than the land, and d’Artagnan thought for a moment about throwing in a sharp turn to get the gaze away from him. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be that cruel, though.

‘He said others were going after you.’ D’Artagnan finally answered, studying the land around him, though he wasn’t really seeing it. He remembered envisioning a burnt-out yacht, the fear that he would be too late.

‘Still, you could have got help from the ground.’ D’Artagnan glanced in the rear-view at Aramis, found he was under scrutiny from both him and Porthos and quickly looked away.

‘I thought it would be too late.’ His quiet voice sounded loud over the radio. He remembered the relief at finding the yacht intact, seeing the three alive and decided to change the subject, unwilling to examine the feelings further. Not with an audience, anyway. ‘Who do you think is the mole?’ Athos looked over at the question, eyebrow raised. ‘You said you had an inkling.’

‘When we get back to HQ, I’ll show you.’

‘Come on, Athos!’ Aramis sounded annoyed, and d’Artagnan realised he wasn’t the only one who didn’t know. ‘We’ve got a long flight ahead.’

‘Yes.’ D’Artagnan wondered if Athos was aware of how annoying it was when he reverted to the clipped, upper class voice.

‘Tell us a story.’ Porthos said over the radio.

They all heard the sigh. ‘Fine.’ D’Artagnan saw him settle into his seat more, eyes scanning the horizon though he doubted Athos was seeing much. ‘We’re ordered to collect a USB from an estate belonging to Braggs.’ Athos paused, looking over at d’Artagnan for a second. ‘I take it you know who that is.’

‘I took a stab.’ D’Artagnan confirmed.

‘Braggs has many enemies. By sending us to his estate, even one he currently doesn’t reside in, it brings him under scrutiny. The press get wind of it, everything is focused on him. So why would someone destroy his house?’

‘If there was something on the USB that could implicate Braggs, a rival would want it found rather than destroyed.’ Porthos finished the thought.

Athos agreed. ‘The estate, we were told, would be empty.’

‘It wasn’t just empty.’ Aramis commented. ‘It was unlived in.’

Athos nodded again.

‘You think they were hoping to destroy the estate with you in it.’ D’Artagnan completed the thought.

‘If we hadn’t had such a competent pilot, they might have been successful.’ Athos said.

D’Artagnan was embarrassed to find the matter of fact complement meant more to him from Athos than a “good job” would have done from someone else. ‘So, they missed the chance at the estate, and tried again at the beach?’

‘It was an obvious next step. Braggs is well known for spending time on his yacht, and though it was unlikely the USB would be there, anyone would have checked it out.’

‘And we were expected to?’ D’Artagnan asked.

‘I think we just confirmed what they expected when we told HQ where we were going. The call would have been logged, as normal’

‘And, so, accessible by anyone at HQ who wanted to know our plan.’ Porthos worried at the graze on his cheek as he spoke, Aramis knocking his hand away before he could disturb the scab.

Completely immersed in the story, d’Artagnan thought he was missing a vital piece of information. ‘Who actually owns the USB? Who wants it?’

He watched as the three exchanged looks before Athos answered. ‘I think whoever owns it and who wants it is two very different parties. But we were just sent to retrieve it, no details on the party claiming it.’

‘By Treville?’

‘No, actually. It was a general email assigned to us as the only free investigative team.’

‘You think whoever went after it would have faced the same problems?’

‘Or whoever sent the email knew exactly which team was free.’ Aramis shrugged, ‘we may never know.’ His tone, though, told d’Artagnan he didn’t think it had been a coincidence.

‘You think the USB exists?’

‘Yes.’ Athos answered. ‘I think someone is willing to do an awful lot to protect, but whoever it belongs to is willing to pay as much to see it destroyed.’

A silent beat passed over the helicopter. ‘You think someone hired the Musketeers to find it whilst a second party are looking to destroy it?’

‘And I don’t think they care who gets destroyed with it.’ He looked over at d’Artagnan for a moment, waiting till d’Artagnan looked at him. ‘I think you were right, we should have asked what was on it. Whatever it is, someone is more than willing to kill to keep it a secret.’

‘Ok,’ d’Artagnan was more than willing to ignore that Athos had just said he was right, though he filed it away for later thought, ‘I still don’t get how this links back to someone in the Musketeers trying to kill you all, or highjack me to get back to HQ.’

‘The owner of the USB wants it back. That much is obvious. But someone else doesn’t want it found.’

‘Someone who wants the content exposed. Whoever is featured on the USB?’ Porthos suggested.

‘Or knows what damage the USB will do on exposure.’

‘Ok, one party wants it, another wants it destroyed. Must be a pretty explosive dossier. What about the mole at the musketeers, what do they want?’ Aramis wondered.

‘They seem to be trying to stop us from getting it.’

‘And you have an inkling who.’

‘I think sending us to Braggs was a nonsense.’ Athos said. ‘a false lead, but one with a purpose, to try and bring Braggs under scrutiny.’

‘Richelieu.’ Aramis all but breathed the answer, face lighting up as he quickly made the leap.

‘The assistant director?’ D’Artagnan asked in surprise.

‘He hates us. Always has done. Treville employed us directly, sought us all out.’ Aramis answered.

‘But he hates Braggs more.’ Athos said, turning as much as he could in his harness to look at Aramis. ‘You remember where he was before the Musketeers?’

Aramis’s grin was bright, and tinged with evil. Even d’Artagnan could answer this, though. ‘Government. Wasn’t he a minister before some scandal or other.’

‘Sleeping with a prostitute or two.’ Porthos said.

‘or three, or four, but who’s counting?’ Aramis added.

‘And who exposed him?’

‘Braggs.’ D’Artagnan understood the look on Aramis’s face as Porthos answered.

‘That’s some revenge.’ D’Artagnan checked the instruments before him, automatically clocking the information even as the information settled into some sort of order in his mind. ‘He would try and kill you purely because Treville hired you?’

‘In a heartbeat.’ Aramis said cheerfully.

‘Anything to get one over Treville.’ Porthos added.

‘Ok, I get Richelieu wanting revenge against Braggs. And even maybe killing you.’

‘But why highjack the helicopter pilot to fly back to Musketeers HQ.’ Athos finished for him.

D’Artagnan shrugged helplessly.

‘I think that was whoever wants the disc back.’

It took several seconds for this to sink in, and the implications to become apparent. ‘the disc is at the musketeers?’ Aramis asked, looking uncertain that this what Athos meant.

Athos simply nodded, settling back to watch the horizon again.

‘The disc is at base?’ Porthos echoed, frowning heavily.

‘We’ll find out when we get there.’ Athos said. ‘Treville has left information about our return off the official communications portal.’

‘Do you ever have a nice, quiet investigation?’ D’Artagnan wondered as the outskirts of the city became apparent in the distance. The laugh he got in return was answer enough.

xx

The story came out around a much-needed beer at a nearby bar. Well, d’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis had beer, Athos had looked at the choice with distain before picking a Soave from the “abysmal” wine list.

Richelieu had been arrested for blackmail, the disc found in his office containing details of a well-known environmental lobby group, who appeared to be mostly funded by an oil corporation. The papers were going to have a field day as the details slowly trickled out, especially when the head of the environmental group, a government minister, was arrested for funding a high jacking attempt on a private security firm.

D’Artagnan felt exhausted just trying to keep up with the details. They had all been ordered to stay silent, by Louis, the company director no less, and the police who didn’t want their many targets for arrest to be forewarned of what they knew.

‘So, you missed your meeting with Treville.’ Aramis was watching him from over his pint glass.

D’Artagnan acknowledged the statement with a slight tip of his own glass.

‘You’ll have to reschedule soon. You’re too good a pilot to be just transporting the rich and richer around the city.’ Porthos joined in.

D’Artagnan noticed Athos sit back in his chair, settling in for the show. ‘You seriously think I still want to be your pilot?’ He asked in disbelief. ‘I’ve been shot at, nearly blown up, highjacked, all in the last week.’

‘Yeah, great, wasn’t it?’ Porthos asked, clapping him on the back.

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but stare at the big man like he was slightly crazy. He extended the look to the other two when they nodded in agreement.

‘You can’t tell me that you haven’t felt more satisfied, more alive doing these jobs than you have in the month you’ve been transporting rich folk around.’ Aramis placed his glass on the table, giving d’Artagnan his full attention.

D’Artagnan resisted the urge to fidget in his seat, frowning as he remembered feeling like he belonged, and how unsettled it had made him feel. ‘Why do you even care?’ he finally asked in frustration, desperate to redirect the feelings.

Aramis and Porthos both went to answer, but it was Athos that answered first, sitting forward with his elbows on the table as he settled his piercing gaze on d’Artagnan. ‘You’re one of us. We all recognised it. And you may not realise it, but you need us. We have each other, but you have no one. And that’s a lonely life. It doesn’t have to be.’

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to speak, but Athos hadn’t finished.

‘Something happened. We all understand that. More than you could imagine, if you’d let us. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve this, that you don’t deserve to be a part of something again.’ Athos looked away but not before d’Artagnan caught a glimmer of pain he understood so well reflected in Athos’s eyes. ‘It’s your choice, of course.’ He added.

‘But you’re never going to give up.’ D’Artagnan finished quietly.

‘Not one little bit.’ Porthos said with a grin.

xx

D’Artagnan was good at compartmentalising. It was a useful skill, had got him through elite training, 12 mile runs at three in the morning after a full day of training, with a loaded pack on his back and exhaustion shaking through every muscle. It had got him through the horror of Afghanistan and Iraq, seeing body parts of former comrades flying through the air, raining down in the hot and arid desert as the enemy sought to extinguish them.

Now it got him through two days of increasingly dull flying before he really started to wonder why it was bothering him so much.

It wasn’t quite six am, and d’Artagnan had long lost count of how many sets of 100m frontcrawl he’d completed. His mind automatically clocked the time, sticking to the 90 second rule though he was getting less and less rest between sets. His shoulders ached. His lungs burned. He kept going and going, pushing through the barrier of physical exhaustion as he battled with his increasing frustration at not being able to settle for what he had.

Flying used to be everything. The feel of lifting off into the sky, the nothingness around him, the powerful beat of the blades. When he had completed rehab, and stepped out into the civilian world, it had been everything, all he had needed.

Now it didn’t feel enough. He still got the familiar buzz from flying, but now it was dulled, overshadowed by the excitement of being part of a team, being part of something again. The aristocratic rich bored him more, their petty demands irritating rather than amusing. Their dull lives flying backwards and forwards to board meetings or lunch in the city grated on him.

And he knew who to blame of course.

He came to the end of the set, realised he’d only got 15 seconds’ rest according to the timing clock, and for a moment simply let his head rest on the side, the smell of chlorine filling his nose, and the frustration that had itched through him all night finally quelled by the physical activity. He counted down in his head before pushing off, switching to his back and watching the ceiling as his ankle predictably protested the change.

Swimming had been introduced to him by one of the physios early on. Understanding the frustration of not being able to be as physically active as he used to be, Jack had taken d’Artagnan to a pool and told him to do a length. D’Artagnan could swim, but had only really done it for leisure: fooling around, dive bombing, play fighting with friends on hot summer days of childhood. Swimming, he had thought, could never replace the feel of a hard run.

The physio, an ex-county swimmer had laughed at his form, and introduced him to actual swimming. Hard physical strokes, reliant more on upper body strength so it didn’t matter than his useless leg mostly just floated behind him. The first 45-minute session had exhausted him. The second had made his shoulders burn and he’d almost cried with relief of finding something he could do. Now he could swim with little thought, strokes strong and powerful, his leg much better supported in the water than it was on land. He could even forget about his physical impairment in the water, he could feel normal, much like when he was flying.

He wasn’t so good on his back as doing front crawl, his ankle didn’t like the pressure, but it was a nice change watching the ceiling of the pool, catching his breath with easier strokes. His mind, unencumbered by wondering when the next breath of oxygen was coming, went back to mulling over the changes that had occurred over the last week.

He had been avoiding the others, and to his surprise they had let him, no evening visits to his flat, no casual meetings in the canteen or out on the tarmac. It irritated him further that he actually missed them. He was due to meet with Treville first thing and had no idea what to tell him. His head said leave well alone. His heart had other ideas.

So, he compartmentalised, shoved it all away again, and dove under water, swimming the length of the pool along its bottom, turning and pushing back without surfacing, going further and further until his lungs burned in desperation, his muscles grew weak and trembled, till his vision began to blur.

He surfaced in a rush, a huge breath of air almost choking him.

‘I told you not to do that!’ The panicked, stern voice made him start and look around, smiling already before he saw his companion. He’d chosen his flat for the proximity to the private swimming pool attached to a gym that was almost always empty first thing in the morning. The only other regular occupant was Mrs Reeves. She was pushing seventy, swam in the traditional manner of all ladies with their hair newly set, and made no secret of the fact she came early in the morning because she enjoyed watching him. And it had nothing to do with his form in the swimming pool. She openly appreciated the strong muscles of his chest, and his perfect six pack and had not been afraid to tell him.

It had been a little bit of restored pride when this little old lady had ignored his scared, wasted leg in favour of ogling his chest.

‘You’ll be the death of me!’ She carried on, settling hands on comfortably wide hips and giving him a disapproving look.

D’Artagnan stood up in the shallow water, feeling the water trail down his body, and smiled devilishly at her. ‘At least you’ll die happy.’ He said cheekily.

She laughed, a bright and sunny sound as she mock fanned herself, eyes openly raking the length of his body. ‘Very true.’

A few more lengths to warm down, and d’Artagnan was in the changing room, taking his time to wash away the smell of chlorine that clung to him. Only partially successful, he dressed in the crisp dark suit and white shirt of his uniform. Every button gleamed, every pleat stood in starched glory, every seam was ruler straight. He fussed with his long hair, still sometimes taken aback by how long it was, having worn it short for so many years. He kept his face clean shaven, still taking comfort from the rasp of razor on skin, the shadow of beard still uncomfortably looking like he was a young boy trying to grow his first facial hair.

Comfortable clad in the uniform, even though it was now a suit, d’Artagnan went out to face the world, ignoring the limp as best he could, still wondering what he was going to say to Treville.

xx

He sent the text before he could double, or triple guess himself, the first time he had invited anyone to his flat. It was a little embarrassing that they beat him home, the three men looming on his doorstep when he let himself in through the security door. He had long since stopped wondering how they managed to get through it.

‘You didn’t have to bring dinner.’ D’Artagnan said, spying the take out in Porthos’ hands, though the smell of Chinese made his stomach remind him that he hadn’t eaten yet. And that once again he hadn’t managed to go shopping.

‘Have you tried to stop Porthos eating?’ Aramis asked with a bright grin.

‘The amount of take out you lot eat, I’m surprised you’re not all much bigger.’

Porthos peered at d’Artagnan as he hunted out his keys. ‘Did you just call us fat?’

‘No, I wondered how you weren’t all fat.’

The friendly punch he received made him grin as he opened the door, walking in ahead of them. If they were unaware of his decision, they were doing a good job of not even looking interested, though Treville had promised that he would leave d’Artagnan to tell them himself. D’Artagnan played along, wondering how long they would last, and betting that it was the impatient Aramis who would break and ask first, before they finished the duck pancakes.

He was wrong. They lasted till well into the egg fried rice, and it was Athos who asked how the meeting had gone.

‘Well, thank you.’ D’Artagnan answered to the polite enquiry, matching Athos’s bland tone almost perfectly.

Aramis sighed, Porthos glowered, and d’Artagnan felt his heart lighten, ever so slightly, as he stole the last spring roll from under Porthos’ nose whilst he was glaring.

He managed to nonchalantly chew for a moment before he couldn’t manage it any longer, hiding his sudden nervousness behind a gulp of beer. ‘I want to be your pilot.’ He said in a rush. ‘I said yes. But there’s stuff you should know first.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Aramis was serious, even as a pleased grin played at the corner of his lips, and he looked like he wanted to dance in his seat in excitement. He held himself steady, but Porthos was less restrained, reaching out and pulling d’Artagnan into a brief hug.

‘Welcome to the team.’ Athos said, reaching out to place a brief hand on his shoulder, his smile warm.

But d’Artagnan had been thinking about this all day. He had known he had made the right decision by the feeling of relief on saying the words to Treville. Aramis’s words from a few days ago, that he was allowed to want more, came back to him. Above all, he knew he wanted this.

They finished the food and settled in the lounge, d’Artagnan taking a seat and contemplating the men who had so suddenly appeared in his life as they arranged themselves around the small room. It still amazed him that they had managed to become something he hadn’t realised he was missing. Wanting to return the trust they had offered him, and knowing that he could trust them with the truth that had ended up dictating everything in d’Artagnan’s life, he unearthed the picture that Aramis had found.

He looked at it, the faces of men he had trusted as brothers, for a moment unable to speak as he considered the faces of men he had lost, and the faces of the men that had betrayed them all. The others stayed quiet, patient.

‘This is my old unit. My last unit.’ He took a harsh breath and blew it out, thrusting the picture back in its place when he could no longer stand to see the easy-going smiles on their faces. ‘Elite forces.’ He smiled slightly as he added, ‘We thought we could do anything. That we were invincible’ He tapped his fingers restlessly on the rim of the glass he held. ‘Of course, we weren’t.’

They were all silent, listening carefully. He occasionally felt eyes on him, studying him, but d’Artagnan’s look was far away from them now, gazing into a past he had long since tried to forget.

‘They said they were owed it. That they had been forced to fight in a phony war and that this was their due. That it was a war that wasn’t even ours to fight. They had watched good friends die, and they deserved it.’ D’Artagnan recognised the bitterness in his voice, tried to clear it.

‘D’Artagnan.’

He started, brought back to the present by Aramis’s quiet call, and wondered how long he had been silent. He cleared his throat, considered the glass in his hand for a moment. ‘We were sent to rescue a classroom of Afghan children; intel suggested it was going to be hit.It should have been a walkover, no one knew our orders except our captain, and we should have gone undetected. But we were discovered, the Taliban came in with guns blazing, shooting at us like ducks in a pond.’ His breath hitched for a moment, uncomfortably hot as the heat pressed down on him, and the sounds of machine gun rattled around, and gravel stung his face and his leg screamed in pain.

He jumped when a warm hand landed on his shoulder, bringing him back to his flat. He looked up at Aramis who had sat beside him on the arm of the sofa. He had an irrational urge to tell him off for sitting there, an echo of his father’s voice from all those years ago.

‘There was an antiquities museum behind the school.’ His voice sounded breathless. Aramis’s hand was a steady presence on his shoulder but he could feel the others too, Athos a steady presence beside him, Porthos sitting close by on the floor. ‘The school had a convenient tunnel to the museum, and a few members of my unit raided the museum under the cover of the rescue. The Taliban found out, and started shooting. Fifteen children died. Six of my unit came home in boxes. All because they felt owed.’

‘D’Artagnan.’ Aramis’s voice was sympathy and empathy, and d’Artagnan realised how little he had said this out loud before.

‘When I was in the hospital, some of the men came to see me. Told me what was going on. They tried to justify it. To say that it was ok, and we were all owed for what we were being made to do. Twenty-one people died, but it was ok because they were deserved it, and didn’t I want my share?’

His breath was coming in harsh pants again, but it was easier than he imagined, and the others were a steadying presence as he laid the truth before him. ‘I threatened to whistle blow, only to be told that the captain had been the source of the plan in the first place.I left on a medical discharge, an honourable discharge, disappeared from all of them because I didn’t want any part of a unit that could do that. I couldn’t serve anymore, in any capacity, knowing what had happened, and that no one cared.’

It had been a long time since he had cried. A long time since his last proper panic attack. He’d built walls around the whole mess to protect himself, but in doing so he now realised how much he’d denied himself. The first crack in that wall, he now realised, was the brief flashback at the sound of gunfire, something that he would have thought paralysing in the past, but in fact it hadn’t stopped him doing his job and shooting one of the fleeing criminals. Even though it had led to more nightmares he realised now how powerful that act had been. The last week with the three men who sat listening with such empathy had shown him a small glimpse of all that he had been missing.

‘I still get the nightmares.’ He finally said, trying for matter of fact, sounding more like a confession.

‘Flashbacks, panic attacks?’ Porthos asked. At an affirming nod Porthos nodded ‘join the club.’ He intoned, smiling brightly.

As he sat there, comfortable in their presence, d’Artagnan wasn’t fool enough to think that speaking it all aloud would somehow bring an end to it. He knew that the dreams would continue, the insomnia would linger, the fear of the dark wasn’t going to magically disappear overnight. But at least he could start living again instead of just existing as he had been. Better still, he was surrounded by people who understood, who knew what it was like.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, glanced over at Athos, who looked back at him steadily, his gaze warm. They both looked back as Aramis let out an exclamation.

Unable to ignore the box at his feet, Aramis had begun to dig through, pulling out a calendar and thrusting it under d’Artagnan’s nose. Athos took one look, lifted his head to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze and simply said ‘explain.’

D’Artagnan knew that if the calendar had been the usual found in barracks, scantily clad buxom women, he wouldn’t have been as embarrassed as he was, staring down at a Disney calendar of the cartoon Bambi.

‘If you get off to cartoons...’ Porthos let the sentence hang, even as three looks turned his way.

D’Artagnan laughed. ‘It was a nickname.’

‘Bambi?’ Porthos asked

‘Which one’s Bambi?’ Athos asked.

Aramis looked at him askew. ‘How do you not know who Bambi is?’

‘Why would I know who Bambi is?’ Athos countered.

‘Everyone knows who Bambi is!’

‘Clearly not!’ Athos shot back.

‘Why Bambi?’ D’Artagnan’s hopes that his nickname would be forgotten were dashed by Porthos butting in.

‘It’s really not that funny. On basic training the others found out my birthday, and that I was the youngest. They called me Bambino and’ he shrugged eloquently, ‘It got shortened.’

‘Huh.’ Aramis looked like he was thinking this over way too much.

D’Artagnan got in quickly. ‘Call me that, and I’ll have to think of something embarrassing to call you.’

‘Can’t be worse than sweet-cheeks.’ Aramis said.

‘Sweet-cheeks?’ D’Artagnan queried.

‘Don’t ask.’ Athos advised.

‘Alright, Bambino, where’s the beer?’ Aramis asked. D’Artagnan moved to shove him off the sofa arm, but Aramis moved quicker, laughing as he dodged the shove.

‘Where’s the beer, Bambi?’ Porthos joined in with relish.

‘I hate you all, I’m going to rescind by decision.’

‘You can’t.’ Porthos sang out. ‘You’re stuck with us.’

‘The horror!’ D’Artagnan couldn’t help but join in the laughter as Porthos pulled him from the sofa and proceeded to attack his hair. D’Artagnan battered the hands away, going for an elbow to the ribs in defence as Aramis joined in, Athos laughing at them from the sofa.

xx

Later, lying in bed, d’Artagnan tried to remember the last time he had laughed so hard. Unable to get his mind quiet enough to sleep, he at least had a future to think on rather than just a past to dwell on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you have enjoyed this story.   
> This is a work of fanfiction, emphasis on the fiction. In case you haven’t guessed, I know little on the realities of flying a helicopter. So, apologies if there are any glaring errors- feel free to point them out!  
> I love reviews, and thank you to anyone who takes the time to leave one. I don’t know when/if I will carry this on. But I said that last time, so there’s always hope!  
> Rx

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, reviews are always welcome!!  
> Rx


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